The True Story Of How I Met Your Daddy

My hand shakes as I write this, but I have to get it down. It's the last thing I'll be doing in this life. I want you to know who your real parents are, and the real story behind them. I love you, my baby boy.


2. Everyday


The early-morning Californian sunshine leaks through the gap in my cheapo blind, catching me right in my eyes. My head feels like someone's stuck a carving knife in my brain, and the rest of me aches all over. Except my left arm, which I can't feel and I swear will drop off. Slowly turning my head to my left, I see why I can't feel it; the guy I met in the club last night is asleep with his head resting on my arm.

He's just as attractive as he was last night, which is a good sign. It shows I'm able to handle my liquor a lot better than I used to. His head's very heavy though, and my arm feels like it's about to drop off. I gently drag it out from under him, before sitting up slowly and going to get a paracetamol.

Looking at myself in the bathroom mirror, my headache grows. I look absolutely terrible. My mascara's all down my face, half my sister's foundation has rubbed off, and I don't even want to know how my lipstick smeared halfway up my cheek. That's the last time that I say yes to a guy buying me another drink. Especially when I don't know his name.

Swallowing the paracetamol, I stagger back to my room; tripping over my formerly-intact shoes and catching my foot in a shirt. I can't say if it was mine or not, but it must have been a very wild night. I climb back into bed, to give the paracetamol time to work.


I'm woken up God-knows how long later by my sister (I share a flat with her) whacking me in the face with her ID. I can tell she may be slightly mad with me.

"Don't you dare steal anything off me again, Wilhemina-Jean Geldburn! You wouldn't just have gotten arrested if you were caught, you would have dropped me in it aswell! Then I'd have to bail you out of jail, and not be able to pay rent, as you can't because you don't work, and we'd be homeless!" She shrieks, pulling the bedsheets off me. "Is that my foundation? You filthy slag!"

"Oh, piss off! You never wear it anyway. And I'm not a slag, you dozy cow." I push myself up and grab the first bra I see from my chest of drawers.

"You got off with someone you met the night before, and you were completely intoxicated, so that makes you a slag. I bet you didn't even know his name." She pulls the blinds up and I'm dazzled in the bright sunlight. I don't know if you live in Downtown LA, but I can tell you one thing. It looks glamorous, but it's absolute torture if you fancy a lie-in or have a hangover.

"So what if I didn't? He promised me that he wouldn't let me worry about a thing anymore. How could I refuse? Anyway, you didn't see how good-looking he was. Reminded me of that famous Pharaoh, Rama-something." I reply, buttoning up the first blouse I can get hold of.

"Yeah right. I bet he also promised you he would carry you to the moon, buy you all the diamonds you could ever want, make you a princess and ride off into the sunset with you on the back of a rainbow-patterned unicorn. You're nineteen now. You're far too old for believing that all your problems can be erased just like that. And by the way, I did see him when he left about half an hour ago, Slaggie-Jean."

"He's gone? But he never even said goodbye, or left me his number." I look up from pulling on my panties and tights. He just left me.

"Yep. You were asleep, so he just got up and left. Seemed to be in a hurry to go, from what I saw. Maybe you could ask around to see if anyone knows him. Oh yeah, I forgot. You don't know his name, Billie-Slag!"

"Shut UP! You could have at least tried to stop him or something." I pull my skirt on and brush off all the dust on it. It's the only one I have left; a thrift-store find but it's genuine 50's.

"Not my problem, sis. You got yourself into this, and you can go get yourself out of it. You can start by getting your lazy ass out to get a job. I'm off to work now, and you'd better have gotten yourself employed by the time I get back, or I'm kicking you out of here." She turned to go, picking up my denim jacket from the door handle. "I mean it this time." She added, slamming my door behind her.

I sigh deeply, as I hate being turned down for job interviews. I feel like crap afterwards.

Join MovellasFind out what all the buzz is about. Join now to start sharing your creativity and passion
Loading ...